Fighting Dreamers
by that crazy girl always reading
Summary: Young girls and their older brothers are being kidnapped, tortured and killed by a deranged UnSub who thinks they are using black magic to set the girls free. So when the BAU team is called in to investigate, what happens when Reid vows to protect the UnSub's next target, a little girl? No Slash.
1. Prololgue: It Didn't Hurt

**Okay... this is my first story on this site ever, so I'm a little unsure as to if I'm doing this right. In any case, here's my very first Criminal Minds fanfic!**

**...yeah!...**

**I won't ask you to be gentle, or nice, or anything, because it's not like it's my first story ever. Be as harsh as you would be with anyone else. All I ask is A) You don't go all "OMG u suk i hate u" and B) You keep in mind that, though I have written before, I'm not a pro, and I don't have an editor or anything, although I'm a grammar nazi on my own.**

**Anywho, I hope you enjoy!**

"Big brothers... you know why they're born first? To protect the little ones that come after them."  
-Ichigo Kurosaki

The door slowly creaked open and sent a dancing shade of light into the otherwise undisturbed darkness of the room. It cast its trapezoid-like form onto the smooth cement floor and pushed against the rim of the shadows, forcing them back. The room was almost silent, but soft whimpering could be heard as well as equally tiny and doubtful reassurances.

The room fell entirely silent as the door opened and brightened the dark. Huddled together, chained to a bed in the corner, the two occupants of the room stiffened and one burst into tears. Quickly, the other began to comfort her with much haste, whispering soothing "It's alright"s and "It'll be okay"s.

Lies, essentially.

Quick, sharp footsteps echoed as they crossed the room and the two shadows on the bed turned to face the approaching figure fearfully. One was a teenage boy, wrists and ankles shackled together and chained to the bedposts. The second was a little girl with only one chain enclosed around her right ankle, also attached to the bed. Her arms were wrapped around the boy and her body was shaking as she whimpered in fear. She couldn't have been older than 5 or 6.

The boy was different. He felt fear, but it was overrun by rage as he hid the girl behind him as best as he could. A half-escaped reassurance was on his lips and a glare made of pretend confidence was on his face.

The figure stopped and surveyed the two, how the brother covered her body with his own, how the sister scrubbed rapidly at the tears streaming from her eyes. They both tried to put on a brave face, but neither were doing very well as the brother's glare weakened and he bit his lip, fear overshadowing anger that once overshadowed fear.

The figure glanced once more at the brother's stupid pretend "love" and felt rage begin to boil up, rising in his chest. He could tell some of the anger must have bled through to his face, for the girl began to cry harder and clutch the boy even tighter.

"Don't touch her," the brother begged after shushing the sister, eyes and words both pleading for his little sister to be left alone. "Hurt me, not her, please, I'm begging you!" He bit his lip and gazed at the merciless face hovering over his every move.

Finally, the figure slowly pulled up a chair, but he didn't sit down in it. Instead, he carefully unlocked the older boy's wrists, clasping them tightly in his hands when they made a move to attack him. He dragged the boy onto the chair and quickly handcuffed his hands behind him, tying his feet to the legs of the chair before they risked unlocking his feet from their shackles.

The girl sobbed and cried as her older brother, hyperaware of her distress, gallantly struggled against the handcuffs, pushing all his fear, anger and hope into his arms as he did so.

He was thwarted when the first blow hit him, making him grunt and his sister scream as if she had been hit. It was powerful, fueled with anger pushing behind it, and delivered with a baseball bat. Although it slammed his stomach and made his side scream, he kept the scream from escaping his mouth. He wouldn't scare his sister.

The next blow hit his back, which instantly arched as he quickly cut off a yell of pain. A sickening crack was heard and an even more sickening chuckle came from the attacker, who seemed to derive some amount of disgusting pleasure from what they were doing.

He lost count of the blows, hitting his stomach and back one after the other, never relenting. Though he felt copper in his mouth from his teeth in his lip, trying to keep himself silent, he felt his resolve weaken with each blow.

The following hit and the two after that in quick succession were aimed at his feet, making him finally forget his vow of silence and cry out loudly. His sisters sobbing and weeping weren't lost on him, but he couldn't comfort her, too occupied with the blows, coming faster now, to his arms, legs, back, whatever was practical.

Finally, he heard the bat clatter to the floor and gasped in relief, his breathe fast and rugged, tearing in his throat. His relief was short-lived, however, as a crackle and bout of searing pain alerted him to the figure's persistent presence. He screamed now, days of yelling over as his body convulsed and thrashed against its restraints. He didn't know what it could possibly be- taser? Cattle prod?- yet he didn't want to know what had caused the burning and the horrendous stench of burned flesh.

After a few of these, the figure stopped and he collapsed, eyes barely open and fluttering. The man observed him for several heart-pounding minutes of indecision, then slowly took out a knife and stabbed it into his leg as hard as he could. He yelped, not retaining enough energy to scream, as each stab went into a different place and he felt the blood dripping from him. This was it. He was going to die.

Only his eyes managed to stay opened. They stayed fixed as well as they could on his sister, hoping beyond hope that the figure would forget about his now that they'd hurt him. It was a futile hope, however, as the man slowly climbed into the bed, hugging the little girl as her brother's blood boiled. He whispered that it was okay, that he didn't really care about her, to stop crying, but the girl kept on sobbing and screaming and shedding more tears in a second than the boy had in his whole life.

The figure slowly reached down, fingers grasping the back of her shirt collar and pulling her up gently and off of the bed. The brother's eyes, barely open still, drifted almost lazily from the figure to his sister. "No..." he slurred, barely forcing the word out, "No... leave her... alone... leave her alone..."

The figure let loose a loud roar and the boy yelped as they spun around and backhanded him, making his head loll. "Shut up!" he screamed, face reddening to a tomato-like hue. "Don't tell me what to do!" Another slap, even harder. "Don't pretend like you care!" A third slap, with a resounding crack as his head slammed against the chair's back. "Stop acting like you're in charge!" A fourth slap and the figure wound up their arm without unleashing the final slap. "Stop acting like you're better than me!" A last slap, so hard that his head snapped to the side and a sickening snap was heard.

Now barely staying awake, he forced his trobbing face to turn towards his sister, being held and "comforted" by the figure as she wept. "Ssh, ssh, it's okay, he'll be gone soon, don't let him scare you," he whispered, seemingly oblivious that the girl was scared for him, not of him. Truly delusional, as he saw it.

Slowly, the figure pulled the girl up, making the boy snap to attention, eyes locked on his sister, hands straining at the restraints. She was shaking and weeping weakly, trying in vain to pull away from the older person's grasp.

The figure placed a hand on her back and guided her over to a long table as she cried. When the chain reached its maximum length, the figure unlocked it and quickly swept her feet out from under her, making the girl yelp. "Ssh, ssh, it's okay," they soothed- or tried to sooth- as they placed her gently onto the table. Slowly, they pulled out a needle filled to the brim. The girl's watery eyes widened and she began to try and get up, but her efforts were rewarded only by sharp clicks as manacles were fastened around her wrists and ankles, effectively holding her in place.

"No," she cried, struggling against the manacles to no avail. "Please, no, please. I-I don't wanna die." The tone of her voice alone was enough to break a heart of steel and melt a heart of stone, but the killer payed it no mind.

"Don't worry," he tried again, only receiving more sobs in response as he stroked the girl's hair almost lovingly. "It'll all be over soon. I can help you. I'll clear your mind of the lies."

"Please," the girl whimpered, face contorting in terror as the tip of the needle was placed over her arm. "Please, please don't."

"This won't hurt a bit." The killer ignored both her pleas and her brothers mix of beggings for them to hurt him, not her and his cries of rage, slowly inserting the needle as the little girl recoiled but was held in place firmly. "Cleanse of the lies, of the hate, of the disrespect and humiliation!" he cried, thumb readily resting on the plunger.

"Hate eachother and break apart," he continued. "The jealous cat and the pig filled with hate. XX crashing into XX. The cat was thrown into the water."

Finally, the figure closed their eyes with a content smile as they slowly forced the plunger down, pushing the drug through the little girl's veins.

First the girl didn't feel any different besides the feel of horror that rushed through her. Then she slowly felt drowsiness take over her as her eyes drooped, fluttered and closed. Just before everything went black permanently, she felt the words rush through her mind. 'He was right,' she remembered thinking, relief, peace, grief and pain mixing together in her thoughts to form a chilling tone. 'It didn't hurt.' And that's how her life came to an end.

The boy began to scream as soon as her eyes closed and he didn't stop. He just kept on screaming and sobbing, tears finally spilling over and coursing down his face with more force than the swiftest river. "No! Sis, no! NO!" he screamed through his broken sobs. "PLEASE, NO! WAKE UP, SIS! PLEASE!"

"SHUT UP!" The figure screamed, wheeling around and striking him across the face, hard. His vision blurred and swung from side to side, nauseating the not-easily-nauseated boy to the point where he felt bile rise in his throat. At that moment, staring into the eyes of a deranged killer with various potentially fatal weapons, the boy knew he was going to die.

But... you know what?

He didn't care anymore.

The figure- the killer- hit him in the head as hard as possible with the baseball bat and his head snapped back with a crack upon impact. He didn't utter so much as a gasp, nerves shut off by grief and acceptance of his fate. The man hit his head again, and again, and again until they were sure he was dead, until his pulse had long past faded to nothingness. Then he just stood there for a long moment, panting out heavy breaths.

Finally, the attacker straightened out and dropped the bat, turning back to the girl's body with a new air of calmness as they strolled over and gently stroked her hair. He'd underwent a total 180 since they had snapped at the boy and smiled softly at the girl, so peaceful in death that she appeared as if only in slumber. His eyes turned sorrowful as he looked down and his smile became a sad, almost forced one. Slowly, hand stroking through the girl's hair, he began to sing softly.

"Come, let us sing and let us dance. Paradichlorobenzene. Come, let us yell and let us shout. Paradichlorobenzene. The dog, the cat, the cow, the pig and everyone. Paradichlorobenzene. Come, let us go insane and let us sleep until we rot away.

"Come."

* * * CHAPTER END * * *

"Loving a sister is an unconditional narcissistic and complicated devotion that approximates a Mother's love."  
-Roxanne Brown

**Phew... it's over. I just finished a chapter! ...er, prologue...!**

**...yay!...**

**Okay, so please, please, PLEASE tell me what you think. There is a button for that... it says 'Post reveiw' on it... Maybe you should click it...?**

**Oh, and, by the way, I don't own Criminal Minds. If I did, it wouldn't be half as good. And *SPOLIER ALERT* Maeve would not have died.**

**With non-creepy author/reader love,  
-that crazy girl always reading**


	2. Chapter 1: Terrible

**And heeeere you go! Chapter one! ...yeah!...**

**I feel it important (for some reason) to mention that yes, I was working on this chapter that whole time, I was just going for a vacation in Florida so I didn't have much time. In fact, I only got about 800 words done for the remaining week or so in Florida (that was where I finished and posted the Prologue to this story) and finished it yesterday in about an hour, but my computer wasn't attached to the internet yet since we had turned it off so I couldn't post it until this morning.**

**And let me tell you, it is WAY hotter in Florida than it is up here...**

**Also: I made up the victims' names and the town "Nightingale", so if there really is a town in Michigan called Nightingale, I have no clue. Sorry if you share a name and I made a deranged UnSub kill you.**

**Last but CERTAINLY not least, I do not own Criminal Minds. Because if I owned Criminal Minds, why in the world would I be writing Fan Fiction instead of just making these things happen on the actual show?**

When Spencer Reid awoke in the morning, it wasn't because of the alarm clock blaring into action, which it was supposed to do every morning, nor was it to his own cry, which had startled him up on many an occasion after a nightmare. His suffering was silent that night: he woke in a cold sweat, still staring down a gun in his mind, still hearing the chilling words of Raphael ringing in his ears again and again: _"Your team members. Choose one to die."_

Yet it wasn't even the deranged words of Tobias Hankle's fractured psyche that startled him awake; rather, his cell phone (diligently placed on his bedside table for early access although he never received calls at night or in the morning), which began to ring furiously.

His eyes snapped open and his head quickly moved to the side, as if by habit, to see the now almost violently ringing phone that vibrated on the table. Light came through the window, but none came from the nightlight he'd installed (he was slightly flustered even though no one was there to see him do so), and his clock neglected to blink the time as it usually did. He groaned, placing a palm over his face. The electricity had gone out again. _What_ a surprise. And what a _wonderful_ start to the day.

He made sure to get out of his thought at that very moment and grab the bucking bronco of a phone, snapping it open without bothering with Caller ID and giving a weary, "Hello?"

From the other line came an exasperated and familiar "Reid?" that made Reid's heart nearly stop as he realized something. If the electricity was out, then he wouldn't have heard his alarm...

"Reid, where are you?" His suspicions were confirmed as Morgan inquired wearily as to his whereabouts. He groaned aloud. Now he'd gone and been late for work. Perfect. Just perfect.

He pushed his hand over his eye, then slid it up to rake through his hair. "Sorry, my alarm didn't go off," he apologized with a grumble of contempt as he rose. "I must have forgotten to set it." His statement screamed of lies- Spencer Reid never forgets anything, much less something so hardwired into his routine. Morgan didn't pursue the subject, however, for which Reid was grateful.

"Okay, but you've gotta come in, kid, we've got a case." Morgan informed him. Reid groaned again as he slid into his work clothes and trotted into the kitchen area. Sure enough, when he flicked the lightswitch, nothing changed. Apparently his landlord had decided that elictricity bills were too much of a hassle again.

"Okay, I'll be there in a min- oh, are you_ kidding_ me?" Reid had just opened his fridge to the smell of spoiled milk, turned on the faucet with no water coming out and shivered as he realized that the heat bill hadn't been paid either- and neither had the running water bill, apparently.

"What?" The outburst wasn't something Reid would normally do, that's for sure, but Morgan wasn't really sure how to react.

Reid sighed and pulled his coat tighter around him as the slight adrenaline rush from waking up late to work wore off and left him aware that he could see his breath. "Nothing," he murmed, "I just left the milk out. I'll see ya in a few."

Morgan seemed to consider this for a moment, then accepted the excuse hesitantly, although his tone when he replied, "Yeah, bye," was enough to tell Reid that he'd be watching to find out what was really wrong. As if his day wasn't bad enough already. But it wasn't like he could just tell everyone that his electricity and heat had abandoned ship and taken the running water with them.

"Bye." Reid snapped his cellphone shut with a sharp_ 'click'_ and dropped it into his pocket, rushing for the door and only stopping a few seconds to get his wallet before he was out the door.

The light was blinding as he quickly hastened to cover his eyes, groaning as the snow reflected the beams straight at him. It was the dead of January, and, though he was freezing and his breath came out steam, he would rather have taken off his jacket and used it to protect his eyes.

In a hurry of sorts, he snapped out of it, jogging down the street and not even making his daily stop at the coffee shop- the only place he stopped was his mailbox, removing his mother's letter and slipping it into his bag without stopping. Spencer Reid had been late to work so little that he could count it on one hand, and he didn't plan on changing that anytime soon.

"We have eight victims so far, four murd- Reid, you're here." Hotch turned towards the young genius as he hurried in, hair disheveled. He quickly swung the last remaining empty chair out from the table and plopped down, not bothering to remove his satchel as he hurriedly flipped through the case file.

"Hey, pretty boy," Morgan greeted, glancing over at the hasty prodigy. For a moment, his face was thoughtful, then it curved into a grin as he teased, "Well, it's nice to know that even geniuses forget to set their alarms sometimes."

Without looking up from the file, which was currently under the intense force of his scrutinizing eyes, Reid responded, "The plural form of "genius" is "genii"." His tone was neutral; he had simply stated his grammar correction as a force of habit without really hearing Morgan's words or his own. His next question was aimed at Hotch: "Eight victims but only four murders?"

Instantly, the mood turned from playful back to serious- or as serious as possible when Morgan was present- as the team began to go over the case file. "Yeah," Prentiss answered the question, "two people per murder. All found in wooded areas in Nightingale, Michigan."

Before anyone could add to that in replying to Reid's inquiry, Reid noted offhandedly, "Nightingale, Michigan, population of approximately 674 as of the 2010 census. Area is approximately 78% wooded land, 18% flat land and 4% water with an overall area of-"

"-okay, okay, Reid, we get it," Morgan cut in, a bit more than a hint of amusement leaking into his voice. "Small town with a lot of forests. We don't need the National Geographic version."

"All of the victims," Hotch went on as if nothing had happened, restoring the seriousness in the room, "were girls ages 5-9 and their older brothers, anywhere from 13 to 25."

"So the UnSub has a definite type," was Reid's remark as he scoured the file for the fourth time, trying to cover up the fact that he'd read it in a matter of seconds. "The girls all had dark hair, but that seems to be the only other connection besides their town."

"Emma and Nicholas Stone, 6 and 13, were the first victims, found by a hiking group in a small, local forest, January second," Hotch stated, looking through his own copy of the file again. "Then there's Jennifer-" -JJ winced at the unfortunate name- "-and Matthew Bennett, 5 and 17, found in a larger forest exactly a week afterwards. After that is Hazel Bolinskii and Joseph Keller, 9 and 25, found in the same forest a week after that on January 16."

"And then there's the newest victims," JJ added in as she surveyed the newest crime scene photos with an internal grimace despite her neutral facial expression. "Nora and Richard Finch, 8 and 17 years old. They were found in an ever larger forest, and deeper in than the first three, yesterday- Januray 23."

"So the UnSub is starting with small forests and working their way up as their confidence rises," Morgan pointed out, and was met with no objection from the team.

"The female victims are unhurt and well-fed, and they're laid out carefully. Their hair is brushed, their body washed, their clothes changed to nice formal ones. Death by a lethal injection- painless," Reid noted as he looked through the ME report. "The male victims, on the other hand, are beaten and starved. They aren't naked or toyed with and there's no sign of sexual assault, so the UnSub isn't sadistic; rather, they are so angry at the victims for one reason or another that they can't help themselves. They also have deep ligature marks on their wrists and ankles, suggesting they were restrained."

"And check out these creepy marks on the victims' arms," Prentiss added in, flipping to the photographs. Carved with slightly red marks that were started antimortem and went on postmortem into the older brothers' thicker arms were imprinted the lines:

_"And so I ran off to find the answer, even if I already knew nothing was there for me. _  
_You're a bunch of disgusting pigs, aren't you? The jealous cat and the pig filled with hate. _  
_The cat doesn't answer my questions, it just stares down at me with it's eyes."_

"So the UnSub is hateful towards the older brothers and thinks of them as "jealous cats" or "pigs filled with hate"?" Morgan suggested, reading the marks with no lack of confusion at the odd wording and jumbled lines. "Maybe they were jealous or hateful towards the UnSub first, and they felt it wasn't fair, so they became jealous and hateful themselves?"

"More likely," Gideon finally spoke up, having fell silent inexplicably at Reid's arrival, "they feel that the brothers were unfair towards their sisters- being jealous or hateful towards their younger siblings or abusing their power as the girls' elders. Maybe the UnSub had an abusive, bullying, neglecting or just spiteful older brother and is now taking it out on others because they believe all brothers are like that. Or maybe they were or believed they were a great older brother and were angry that the brothers were being unfair to their sisters."

Reid tilted his head in thought. "Well, it's more likely to be a male than a female, since males are more likely to be hands-on whereas females are more likely to be indirect- poisoning instead of torture, slashed brake lines instead of stabbing." He had to cut himself off from a rant, using the helpful advice he'd gotten from Morgan, _"If the topic could take three sentences or more to discuss and begins with "Statistically...", don't say it."_

On the girls' arms, thin, pale and dainty with the careful, postmortem marks sprawling across the skin, the UnSub had written:

_"Come, let us sing and let us dance. _  
_Paradichlorobenzene. _  
_Come, let us yell and let us shout. _  
_Paradichlorobenzene. _  
_The dog, the cat, the cow, the pig and everyone. _  
_Paradichlorobenzene. _  
_Come, let us go insane and let us sleep until we rot away. _  
_Come."_

"So, by killing them, the UnSub believes they're setting the female victims free," Reid suggested, eyes sliding across the pale lines from Emma Stone's arm. "They believe that the victims will be happy and love them for making their older brothers go away, hence, "let us sing and let us dance." They also believe the girls aren't dying, perhaps, just "sleeping until they rot away". The female victims are most likely forced to watch their brothers being beaten because the UnSub thinks the brothers are either unfair or tricking their sisters into loving them."

Prentiss pulled a face at the though of 5 year olds being made to watch their brothers' beatings and deaths and nearly shivered. If the little girls had survived, they'd never be the same again. They'd have to go through years of therapy and would most likely come out severely depressed and unable to reach their full potentials.

"Alright," Hotch interrupted her thoughts as he stood, all the others quickly following suit, "grab your go-bags. Wheels up in thirty."

The team muttered assorted agreements and filed out the door, each heading for their equally assorted vehicles. Reid stopped at his desk, however, and realized his mistake within a second as Morgan chose that moment to jump him, appearing at his side out of nowhere with a "Hey, Reid."

Reid almost cursed to himself, trying to act natural as he opened a drawer to retrieve a book he had stored therein. He was hoping Morgan would at least give him some time to come up with a better cover story than just _"I forgot to set my alarm"_. "Yeah?" he inquired nonchalantly, grabbing the book and sliding it into his satchel.

Morgan studied Reid (who fought to keep his facial expression neutral) closely for a moment before answering with a question: "You really forgot to set your alarm?" Before Reid could answer, he added, "The Spencer Reid who remembers everything he ever reads forgot to set an alarm clock?"

Reid sighed and closed the drawer, straightening his back and turning to face Morgan. His eyebrows were upturned in worry and similar concerns showed in his eyes. "Look, Reid," he started wearily, "I won't push it. But I know you didn't just forget to set your alarm clock, so if you ever want to tell me what really happened, I'm listening." That said, he turned and walked away, feeling that he'd gotten his message across.

Reid just watched him for a long moment, then sighed and pressed his palm against his forehead. Talk about a terrible start to a terrible day. Somehow, he doubted the local police would be brimming with excitement to have Federal help. Family members would respond that "everyone loves them" or "I really don't know". And, most likely, a new victim'd be showing up in a matter of days.

Yeah, definitely a_ terrible_ start to a _terrible_ day...

**Theeeeeere we goo~! I got it out, you! And that's what you'd call a chapter. Chapter one, to be exact.**

**Sooo... did you like it? Hate it? Am I a good writer? Should I just give up writing right now? There's a way for you to give me feedback, you know! You coooould check a little square that says "Favorite Stories", because that always makes me happy.**

**There's also a little text box and a rectangular button that says "post reveiw". ALLEGEDLY, it's supposed to mean you post the reveiw you'd been typing in the text box, but I think it might be an imposter. Why don't you type something up and post it just to be sure?**

**With non-creepy author/reader love,  
-that crazy girl always reading**


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